Book 2 Chapter 16: Blades Out

Eliza

July 2nd, Earth Time, Palermo, Sicily

Sam's visit left Eliza with a bitter taste. Her lucky-bastard of an ex was a duke. She, on the other hand, needed a piece of land to unlock the mysterious buffs that came with her title. Life wasn't fair.

The day had already started badly, with Tristan proposing a spar. He spoke so amiably and warmly that for a second Eliza hoped he had finally seen the truth: that she was gorgeous. Not that she had any romantic interest in him, but it was good to feel admired.

Sure, she had cheated to win, then picked on him every minute, because that was her way of flirting: sarcasm. Sam often joked she was the perfect match for masochists. However, instead of playing his part, joking back, Alas, Tristan all but ignored Eliza. He was evidently smitten with the Italian woman, who, unlike Penny or Sandra, was gorgeous. That had soured Eliza's mood for the day.

Idiot!

Mario, Tristan, and Caterina left the conference room ten minutes after Sam to light a candle for Jan and Isolde. She waited four more minutes and left at his turn because Pops and Dorian were talking about their mission, and she wanted to give them space. They had lowered their voice, for unknown reasons.

In the lobby, she bumped into Saint Georges. The man was walking back and forth nervously, fidgeting his fingers behind his back.

"What's up?" she asked directly. "Why aren't you with Sam?"

"The American delegation objected to my presence. They said I make them uncomfortable. I thought Earth was no longer prejudiced against mulattos."

"Oh... First, we don't say mullato anymore; it's offensive," she whispered in his ear, pressing on his shoulder to bring him closer to her mouth, because the man was really tall. "Second, I bet it's not your mixed heritage making them uncomfortable."

"Then what?" the man snapped, apologizing the next second. "I'm sorry, my temper got ahead of my manners."

"It's okay. As for what makes them uncomfortable, your clothes and your weapon are prime candidates. Or maybe because you could be Napoleon's spy."

"I work for Lafayette, not Bonaparte," Saint Georges said. "As for my clothes, I'd like to buy something that would help me fit more in your world. I plan to stay on Earth for a while."

"What for?"

"Do I need a motive? I'll rent a car and go sightseeing, visiting the most interesting landmarks. It's impossible on the Realm. There's always a war ongoing. Often, more."

Oh my God! "You know how to drive?"

"One of the Progressives had a wheel that could connect to his laptop, which ran a simulation."

"Sorry, what?"

"It's how we call the Renegades who work for us. They bring progress, ergo, progressives."

"I guess not all of them are bad... Question: Do you speak English?"

"I am speaking English right now."

"Okay, okay, that's good. You can never know with the Universal Translator. Never mind. You should hire a guide; our world is complicated."

"I'll manage, milady. I watched a lot of documentaries on the Progressive's laptop."

"And you want to tour Italy dressed... err... like that?" Eliza creased her nose.

"I addressed this matter a minute ago. Could you draw me a map to the nearest tailor, kind lady? Maybe they have some old sets of clothes for sale."

"You're sure you watched the right documentaries?"

"I do not understand," the man furrowed his brow.

"You know what? I'm free the whole day. I'll show you around. Don't even dare say it's not appropriate for a woman to walk—"

"I know the sexes and races are equal here, and I'm most happy about it."

The man looked sincere, and Eliza remembered she had read about him a long time ago. Saint George's mother had been a slave. Equality must've meant a lot to him.

"Do you have money? Our money, not gold."

"No, milady. I have ten Austrian ducats with me."

"I'll help you buy them with local money, and you'll pay me back in ducats, OK?"

"Thank you," the man bowed.

Now, Eliza had a dilemma. It was evident the man was not rich. So, she had to pick a store that was not bad, but at the same time not too expensive. Searching on her phone, she discovered a mall a mile from the hotel. Sports shoes were the most suitable for a round trip; the rest was optional.

"There's a big store nearby. I'll let you drive my car; I'm curious how ba... well you drive. And start by losing the wig," Eliza said.

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"By lose, you mean I should wear it more leisurely?" Saint Georges asked.

"Get it off; it will attract too much attention. And it's hot, if you didn't notice."

Awkwardly, the man pulled off his fake hair. Underneath it, his hair was gray and unruly, tucked together in a heap. He looked like a homeless person who stole some carnival attire.

"It's much worse. Put it back," Eliza sighed.

She turned on her heels and exited the hotel. The man bumped into the rotating door, hurried to fit the wig back on, and then followed her, matching her fast pace without complaining. Eliza was already regretting her offer. His appearance was intended to make waves or attract laughs. She hoped he wouldn't kill someone with that small sword or call for a duel.

Aiming for her rented car, she searched her purse and offered him the keys. Despite her apprehension, Saint Georges drove very well, if carelessly. The mile to the mall took exactly fifty seconds. Red lights, in the knight's opinion, were optional. Luckily, no police were on their way.

"Let me guess, that simulation was Grand Theft Auto?" Eliza asked, swallowing a lump.

"I don't remember the name, but it was about car races," Saint Georges said.

"We'll have to talk about your style... But not now. It's shopping time!" Eliza exclaimed with enthusiasm, because buying things was one of her favorite pastimes.

There was a show for kids in the mall's parking lot, with many costumed characters, and it was easy to pass Saint Georges off as one of them. The abundance of merchandise, characteristic of a mall, was clearly making a number on the knight. Still, he managed to keep his composure, letting his awe appear only in his slightly widened eyes.

Eliza started by shoving him inside a barber shop, almost getting into a fisticuffs with him, because he was afraid of the electric scissors. Twenty minutes later, the result was much better than expected. Saint Georges had a distinguished, gentlemanly look, his firm jawline emphasized by a shorter beard. Once cut to an inch, his hair also looked darker.

Then came the shoes, two pairs, on which she insisted on buying the more expensive quality brands, instead of going for the cheap ones. A ducat, or four hundred euros for both. And finally, they entered a casual-clothes store, where she picked up a pile of T-shirts and a bunch of pants, dropped them in his arms, then gestured toward the fitting room.

"Have a blast, see what you like."

A long series of exclamations and French cussing ensued—if Sacrebleu was one. It took over half an hour for the knight to win the fight with the unfamiliar clothes and emerge from the dressing booth.

"Oh... My... God..." Eliza slack-jawed.

One of the girls on the staff started hyperventilating, and Eliza was not far behind. Calling Saint Georges ripped was an understatement. The man's muscles belonged on a romance novel cover.

"Are you heavy lifting?" the staff girl asked.

"I'm fencing, riding, and playing the violin," Saint Georges said. "The latter requires a lot of effort."

"Is the t-shirt too tight?" Eliza asked as a pretense to feel the man's biceps. They were as hard as a rock.

"No, it's perfect. I never wore such comfortable clothes," the knight said. "I'll never go back to Realm fashion."

"If you let me take a photo for our social media, I'll give you an eighteen percent discount," the girl from the store offered.

"Deal," Eliza said before Saint Georges could refuse.

When they exited the mall, the knight tried to throw the plastic bag with his old clothes in a garbage bin. Eliza stopped him at the last second.

"Hey! What are you doing? These are antiques. I bet they're worth a lot of money."

He smiled. "Yet again, you're right. I will search for a shop to get rid of them."

"Is that a real weapon or just for parade?" Eliza pointed at his small sword, which he hadn't tried to get rid of.

"It's as real as it could be. Saved my life many times by taking others."

"Don't you need a longer blade?"

"A short blade is all forte," Saint George said.

"What the heck does it mean?"

"It means its leverage is stronger against longer blades. I've heard you are a bounty hunter. What weapons do you use, milady?"

"A misericorde dagger. The sheath is hidden in my boots, but it's too hot to wear them here, so I have a switchblade in my purse."

"Then you see my point. A short blade has strong leverage."

"I never cross blades," Eliza scoffed. "I teleport behind the target and stab them. Are you a good fencer?"

"I could show you. Care for a spar?" Saint Georges gestured toward the now-empty scene in the parking lot.

"Don't cry when you lose."

The knight put his shopping bags in one corner, then rotated his head and shoulders. Eliza's constitution ensured she didn't need warm-ups.

"You attack, I parry," he said. "You draw blood, you win. You don't touch me in ten passes, I win. I bet a ducat."

"This will be easy money," Eliza said, unfolding her switchblade. "If you win, I'll pay you five ducats. Hajime!"

Eliza teleported in a shadow at the same time as pronouncing the word. Because she had told him she liked to strike from the back, Eliza appeared on the side. Saint Georges intercepted her thrust effortlessly, diverting the blade and keeping it locked with his small sword, which would have stabbed her in the hand had she not teleported back.

At the second pass, he lunged forward, anticipating she'd strike head-on. The tip of his sword obliged Eliza to duck and roll away.

On the third pass, she overstepped and fell out of the scene because he had tricked her into overcommitting. She cursed, staring daggers. A small crowd had gathered around. The people clapped, cheering for Saint Georges.

"You're wondering how I'm doing it?" he asked.

"Good guess, Sherlock," Eliza said, the last bits of politeness fading out. She didn't like to lose, and her Duelist Grace skill was supposed to make her unpredictable. Which was evidently not working.

"I'm a First Order and manifested my magic skills very early. I also trained hard to detect Mana skills. Some consider me the best fencer in Europe. In reality, there's a Spaniard who is better, an assassin, and he says Duke Samuel won against him, so I guess I'm number three."

The crowd applauded again, thinking the explanation was part of the show.

When an unstoppable force meets an immovable object, the one with better training wins, Eliza improvised on the paradox. His training was compensating for her Interface. However, Eliza was a sore loser.

"Four, because you will not leave this place with a win," she said dramatically, flicking her switchblade between her fingers and passing it into her left hand.

"I beg your forgiveness for my bluntness, but in a real fight, I would have already pierced your heart."

That's actually not a bad idea...

Activating Claire-Obscure, Eliza appeared right in front of Saint Georges. He parried her thrust, but she let go of the knife and stepped on, accepting being stabbed through the biceps to get near him and block his blade. The match was about first blood, and she bit on his shoulder, near the neck.

Do you want to turn Target: Chevalier de Saint Georges into your minion?

"Oh merde, I forgot! No!" Eliza yelled, jumping back.

"I must accept defeat," the knight sighed.

The Target: Chevalier de Saint Georges agrees to be turned into your minion. Installing Interface.

"What... is... this?" the knight gasped, waving his hands in front of his face like chasing away a fly. Seconds later, he wobbled, breathing heavily. Showing the white of his eyes, the knight collapsed on his back.

"Show's over, folks," Eliza yelled, hurrying to feel his pulse.

The public applauded for minutes while she struggled to pick Saint Georges up by the ankles, dragging him offstage.